Veteran
by AliceRed1878
Summary: Catherine 'Cat' O'Byrne arrives in the god-forsaken city with one thing on her mind: Revenge. The rotten bastard who killed her comrades is skulking about the place, but the infamous Bloodhound has a reputation to uphold. She'll burn the city to the ground if she has to. When a Handyman is forced into her life, she starts to have dangerous ideas. Ones that make her question.
1. Chapter 1

Warrick never paid much attention to horoscopes. Full of the things that they stuffed inside fortune cookies at Chinese restaurants, but he thought otherwise today. Just once, he put away his skepticism for a little laugh.

Naturally, his horoscope said the most obscure thing. He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"Hey, Alex! Get a load of this!" He waved her over to his desk. "You've got to read this!"

Alex, who had been busy folding her laundry, looked over her shoulder, tiny Daisy-Dukes still in hand, and sighed. She folded the quickly and threw them on top of the pile. Putting her hands on her hips, she sauntered over and leaned over. Ignoring the lecherous gaze she got from Warrick getting quite an easy, not to mention nice, view of her chest, she turned towards the horoscope in question.

"'Normally, you should stay away from the number thirteen, but when you come across the color red, don't turn your back. Red is auspicious and will bring you good luck. Look for thirteen in your near future and it will undoubtedly bring good fortune?' Warrick, why are you reading this junk? I know you can be kind of a dumb ass but not that dumb." Alex sauntered right over to the other side of the room to return to her disorganized pile of clothes.

"It's just for fun!" He quipped. "Besides, it's not like there's anything specific I should look for. It just says red. Red what? Red hair, red shoes, red shirt…?"

The familiar heavy steps coming up the stairs and down the hall stopped his train of thought. Keys unlocked the door. Nic walked inside, front of his shirt doused with blood. Alex almost gave soft gasp before the realization hit her that she had seen this kind of stuff before and had seen worse sense. The sight of the blood wasn't much, comparatively, just enough to replace the entire shirt and send the dark coat off to dry-cleaning.

"Or red blood." Warrick mumbled soaking in Nic's latest disaster piece.

" _Ran into some trouble. Don't worry. I didn't leave much of a mess._ " Nic signed.

"That still doesn't mean you can come waltzing in here covered in blood! If that douchebag cop hears that you were walking around in broad daylight soaked in blood again, you'll be the one to answer him this time!"

" _No skin off my nose. Just remember that the next time_ you _screw up. Maybe I won't be so willing to save your ass_."

"Play nice boys!" Alex finished up. Grabbing her basket, she thought it best to leave the room for a while. Let the children settle their own differences.

Warrick made a quick glance at the black ink that formed his horoscope.

"I don't suppose that you ran into the number thirteen while you were at, did you?"

Nic's brows furrowed.

" _What's that supposed to mean?_ "

"Nothing special. Just curious. According to my horoscope, the number thirteen is lucky for me, if it's with something red." Warrick slapped the newspaper for emphasis.

" _You read that crap?_ "

"When I'm in the mood for a good laugh."

" _I see. Mr. Monroe wants a word with us. Might be a new paying job. Just let me change my shirt._ "

"Just don't steal another one of mine!"

It wasn't likely that Nic saw Warrick's signs.

"Hey, Alex, sweetheart!"

"Yes?" She regretted not moving fast enough.

"Could be a lamb and stay by the phone until we get back?"

"Sure? Why not? Not like I had plans for the day."

"Thanks!" Warrick shot up and holstered his gun. The level of her sarcasm was either ignored or simply didn't register.

Nic appeared wearing a dark maroon button-up that Warrick found very familiar. Hey, wait a minute…A cold glare was shot from Nic to Warrick who was just as easily silenced as a loud mouth child attempting to talk back to an adult. The two so often stole each other's clothes, Alex was beginning to wonder if those two had been teenage girls in a past life. They fought each other enough over such a silly matter that it seemed more and more likely that the previous life theory was correct. Alex waved them off as they headed for the door. Nic reminded her to lock up after they left and not to wait up for very long. It wouldn't take long, he signed. Alex contented herself by reading a random book off the shelf. Warrick's desk became her footstool in the meantime.

* * *

Mr. Monroe picked a clandestine back alley. It reeked of every kind of filth known to man. He stood there smoking a cigarette while his strongest and best bodyguards stood watch. Warrick and Nic arrived just on time.

"Not often we get hits for the mafia. What can we do for the family?" Warrick asked.

Monroe took a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling a fresh stream of toxic chemicals straight into the atmosphere. The stench of an expensive cigarette and the filth of garbage and other refuse presented a disturbing, conflicting of aroma of rich and thick with ripe, sour, and rotting. For what it was worth, they didn't have to stand so close.

"Normally, I don't like to pretend to be an anti-hero. I like to keep my hands dirty, but there just some things I _hate_."

"Can you elaborate for us?"

"Women, guns, drugs, extortion, etc. Those things I can understand. Why I don't understand are the sick, twisted freaks who get off on using kids as _play things_ , if you catch my drift. There's a bit of a problem starting to crop up in the neighborhoods, and it has caused something of a treaty between the others and I. Nobody likes the perverts who use kids for sex toys. That's the one line we all draw. I take it you understand what I'm getting at?"

"You want us to go around and eliminate pedophiles?"

Monroe shook his head.

"Not quite. That'll be too much work and too much money. For once, I'll let Johnny Law take care of those bastards. What I'm asking you to do is eliminate the scum that pick these kids off the street and sell them to the highest bidder. I don't care what you do to the kids later. Send them off to a nunnery or let 'em run loose in the streets. I don't care which, just get the scum off the streets. And if you can eliminate a couple of the perverts in the process, I'll throw in a few hundred in the pot."

"How much are we talking to begin with?" Warrick asked, eager to find the answer.

Monroe answered by displaying for four fingers.

"Four?"

"Four thousand for each head you bring me, can you do that?"

Warrick could have kissed the man full on the mouth if one of those bodyguards didn't shoot him dead first. No matter. Four thousand each! They'd pay rent for a year with just a couple of those said perverts, not including the scumbags who bought the kids either. Maybe, finally Alex would be a little less cool around him if he had some extra cash to burn?

"This will be a cinch." The phone in his pocket began to buzz and vibrate. "Give me a sec?"

Without even checking for Monroe's answer, he retrieved the cell phone from his pocket ad answered.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"Well, hey, Chad, how's it goin'?"

"Don't give me lip, Warrick. I'm not in the mood! I need a word with you. Now."

"We're kind of in the middle of something. Can you take a rain check?"

"No, I will not take a damn rain check! Get your ass over here before I haul you and your friend into the station. We'll see how far that pretty face of yours will go in the holding cells!"

"Alright, alright," Warrick tried to appease the man. "Where do you want us?"

* * *

Not thirty minutes later, Warrick was stunned again by yet another offer. A huge cash prize for eliminating the same pervs wandering the streets, looking for child to nab or perverts to sell them to. It was evident that neither Monroe nor Chad knew of the other's offers for the same job to the same Handymen. Warrick was practically kiddy as a school girl thinking about all that cash they were about to earn. Getting rid of perverts _and_ being paid for it? _Twice?_ His horoscope had it all wrong! He didn't need either a color or a number to bring him luck!

He had been so stinkin' giddy at the moment that he failed to notice the woman with the enormous bag on her back and cup of hot coffee in her hand. Steaming hot liquid that smelled of caffeinated goodness not only landed down the front of her shirt, but on the front of his as well. He was lucky enough that the material of his shirt was thicker than her flimsy tank top. She sneered at him, throwing the now empty coffee cup to the ground. She was a little shorter than the average adult woman, however there was no way you could confuse her with a kid. There were a couple of things one would be bound to notice, and those things were currently coated in sticky, hot, wet coffee. Her army green tank turned a shade darker and the little napkin-like piece of fabric covering the space between the low neckline and her collarbone went from pearly white to a cream-colored mess.

Atop her head rested a black felted beret. Some kind of ornamental pin was stuck in the brim of the hat. He could almost see the top of her beret because she was so hunched over by the weight of the incredibly large canvas bag strapped to her shoulders. It had been well-used and well-loved considering all of the meticulous patchwork and attempts to keep it together. Loose threads stood on end, tempting anybody to pull them and unravel the sack. Warrick continued his search down, saving her face for last. She had a generous amount of freckles trailing from her face to her neck and to the top of her chest, which was also quite a generous helping of womanly curves. She had a taut waist but not skinny. He could make out the fine lines of her carefully contoured muscles in her drenched shirt. Her pants were baggy cargo pants that ended in her black, scuffed combat boots that had seen more than one battle. Unfortunately, because of this particular article of clothing, he couldn't get a good look at her legs. Back to the top then.

Her arms were covered by a denim jacket, embroidered with worn threads in blues, greens, black, and reds. The jacket looked almost as old as she was, maybe even older. She was fair in face but not in skin tone. She had the soft tan of a Mediterranean beauty but the freckles of an Irish barmaid. Even had the eyes and red hair to go with the dark flecks.

Wait.

Wait a second.

Red? Red hair?

The stranger's long hair was in a tight braid all the way down to her butt, though it was currently trailed down her front. Warrick gave her another long, hard look. He looked everywhere on her person for the number thirteen. He couldn't get a good look without dragging on any longer.

"Don't you have something to say to me asshole?" She barked. Her eyes were livid. She looked like the kind of person who needed even the smallest excuse to cause a ruckus. She could have been called a feral dog with the way her brows were screwed up so tight and with the corner of her lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth.

"Can I ask you something?"

Her anger gave way to confusion. This only lasted for a couple of seconds before she reverted right back to anger. At which point, Warrick should have realized he had been asking for it. Not a moment passed before she raised her fist. He felt his nose cave into his skull by the sheer force she put behind her punch. Cartilage crunched and snapped under her steely knuckles. He blacked out for a moment. When his vision finally cleared, the red-headed fire cracker was standing over him. Nic was nowhere to be found.

"Next time you run into somebody, the first thing you do isn't to stare at them. Second, the first thing that comes out of your mouth shouldn't be a rude question. Be thankful that a broken nose is all you got from me."

Her hazy figure dashed away before he could reach out and grab her. She vanished. Warrick could barely hear her footsteps as she disappeared into another darkened alley. When he finally got the strength to stand on his feet again, he found Nic standing in the corner smoking a cigarette.

"What the hell, man! Why didn't you help me?" He signed and then dusted himself off. A trickle of blood ran all the way down to his chin.

" _You kind of deserved that. You did run into her and spill her coffee all over her shirt._ "

"Whose side are you on?"

" _Let's get going._ "

* * *

Alex stared. Warrick showed up all bloodied up and a handkerchief stuffed up his nose.

"What the hell happened to you?"

" _A woman is what happened_."

"I was minding my own business…"

"Uh huh. I'm sure you were. Hit on the wrong woman, did you?"

"No, it was the other way around…in a more literal manner."

"What did you do to deserve getting punched in the nose?" Alex went to the sink and brought the cleanest hand towel she could find to put under the running faucet.

Warrick plopped down, holding his head back, and busied himself with staunching the bleeding.

"Should I call the doctor? It looks pretty bad." She started wiping off the blood from his face.

"No, no." Warrick waved. "It's no big deal. No need to get the good doctor involved." He was grinning and bearing with it. To be honest, it hurt like hell. He thought he was sure that the woman hadn't been wearing brass knuckles, but judging how much he lost and the throbbing agony that spread from his nose and ended in the back of his skull. For such a tiny woman, she packed a mighty punch. Warrick would have to keep an eye out for that woman, and avoid her like the Black Death.

* * *

Cat turned onto yet another grimy back alley. Her feet and shoulders were aching, which was sort of a new feeling. She hadn't trekked through unfamiliar territory with a weighted sack since her early days in the service. Under her shirt, her dog tags jingled and collided sharply against her breasts. After the accident, she was able to find a dark alley to change into something less dirty. If she ever found that guy again, she started, he had better apologize next time.

Her left boot started feeling looser than the other. Cat glanced down at her feet and saw that the shoe strings had come undone. She slung the large sack off her shoulders, placed it on the ground behind her back, and kneeled in the street. The strings were pulled taut and tied up so tight she could feel them pull against her calf muscle. She slung her arms through the sack's shoulder straps. Lifting with her legs, Cat lifted herself up off the dirty ground to begin her search for a decent motel for the night. It would get dark soon and she wasn't fond of the idea of staying out all night in a city like this. She was a former soldier. She was more than capable of taking care of herself, however there was no need to do something stupid or be careless. She couldn't trust the people here. Who knew what they were capable of doing to each other let alone to strangers?

"How much for the kid?"

Speaking of which.

Cat rounded another corner without meaning to. She took a few more steps than she meant to. The two men talking on a back alley stoop never saw her. They didn't see her enter the alley. A bright-eyed, blonde child, no more than eight years old, stared at her, tears rolling down her cheeks. The little girl wiped her nose with her sleeve and looked unbelievably pitiful.

"How much do you want for her?" The man repeated. He was scrawny thing himself. Tall, lanky, and probably only ran away from his fights than sticking around and putting up his dukes like a real man. Cat didn't need to get a closer look at him to tell that he was the kind of man who took his insecurities out on little children through sick fantasies.

Her hands clenched around her bag's shoulder straps. She tried to turn, walk away, and pretend she didn't see or hear anything. But the little kid just stared at her. She was helpless. Whoever the other man was, he kept a tight grip around her fragile wrist. She looked frantically between the man trying to buy her and Cat. The adults hadn't noticed yet. A furious beast started clamoring inside of Cat's belly. It clawed at her insides. A hero, she could never call herself that. That was a word not reserved for people of her ilk. But neither was she was a person who could stand back at let children be abused in such a disgusting manner. And it wasn't as if she wasn't armed or that she couldn't take two grown men by herself. It would be easy to dispatch them both.

Cat quietly slid her backpack from her shoulders. She pressed her finger to her lips. The kid nodded. While the men were distracted, Cat crept along the alley, dashing behind objects big enough to hide behind. She watched from her discreet corners as the man handed the other a wad of cash. The poor kid started sobbing out of control. The pervert took her wrist and kissed her hand like he was trying to seduce a woman at a bar. This only made the kid more scared. She must have been through this before.

"Have her back by seven. She'll need her sleep."

"Of course."

Cat couldn't take this anymore. Tact be damned. She shoved herself out from the dumpster she was hiding behind and charged head first into the man holding the kid by the hand. She managed to wrap her arms around his shoulder. He struggled but there wasn't much he could do. One wrong move and he would accidentally break his own neck. The child's pimp brought out his own piece and aimed. Cat positioned her hostage just so, making firing a shot pointless, not unless he wanted to kill a customer with her. The other man lowered his weapon.

"There are three things I hate most in this world: men who beat their wives, punks who sell drugs to unsuspecting kids, and perverts who hurt children. And you're both one of those three things I hate." Cat glanced at the kid who was just standing there like an idiot, watching the whole thing. "Sweetheart, I promise this man won't hurt you, but I need you to close your eyes and cover your ears. Can you do that for me?"

The little kid scrambled behind some trash cans and did as she was told. With zero effort, Cat snapped her hostage's neck, killing him in an instant. The pimp raised his weapon again now that he could fire.

But he wasn't fast enough.

Cat must have had god-like speed, blessed by Hermes. She swerved in and out in a serpentine pattern. Hitting her with a bullet was going to be impossible if he didn't aim right and correct his timing. You should have seen just how pale his face turned when Cat appeared right in front of him like a bat out of hell. He pressed the muzzle of his pistol flat against her forehead. He pulled the trigger. The pistol resisted. His beefy fingers squeezed the trigger over and over again. No luck. Out of bullets. Cat couldn't help the smirk stretching across her face. She had a piece of her own, a sharp one tucked safely into her boot. Without much effort, she ducked his left hook, dug her fingers into her boot, and retrieved her weapon of choice. The blade was clean for only one second. In the next, it was painted crimson as she drove it into his stomach, spilling his guts. All over the stoop.

It took him less than ten minutes to die. The deadly stomach acid didn't take long to seep into his blood stream and kill him. He was still staring back at her even after the dull gray film covered his eyes. Cat pulled her knife out of his stomach, flicking some of the blood onto the ground. She reached down and wiped the remaining blood on the dead man's coat. Before standing straight again, she shoved the knife back into her boot for safe keeping.

"Holy shit."

A freezing shiver ran up her spine. This didn't look good. No matter how you look at it, she had two dead bodies on her hands. Now, she had witnesses. Cat slowly turned.

Well, her luck couldn't get any better now could it?


	2. Chapter 2

_Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum._

Cat's heartbeat was pounding away. It was just her luck to run into the same guy who spilled her coffee all of her shirt when there were two dead guys laying at her feet. She swallowed hard. Head pounding, pulse racing. Cat climbed down the short little steps from the top of the stoop to where the first body lay. The blonde's partner rested his hand on a katana at his hip.

"How much did you just see?"

Fight or flight response was kicking in, but so was the need to get away with murder. Prison didn't sound like a good place for her to be at the moment and it wouldn't get her any closer to finding the thing she wanted most in the world. It would be difficult to get revenge if she was stuck behind bars. Different scenarios on how this fight would go down were already rolling through her brain like film strips. Which should she go after first? The half-Asian motherfucker or the other one? Hit 'em high or get 'em low? What was her defensive strategy, if she had one? Cat noticed that the idiot who spilled her coffee had a holster strapped to his torso. Semi-automatic handgun, make and model unknown. Loaded, she didn't need question that. From what she had seen of the city already, you'd have to be a brand-spanking new kind of stupid.

"How much did you see?" Cat repeated. She started bending low to the ground in order to grab for the knife she just hid in her boot.

The idiot's partner must have known what she was doing and wrapped his hand around the sword's hilt. The idiot just stood there. He looked from his partner to Cat and back again. He didn't reach for his weapon. After several seconds of looking at the scene, he approached her. Cat's hand easily glided into her boot. He raised his hands defensively. She backed down but withdrew her knife anyway. The blade was held towards him, and her hand was steady as a cinderblock wall. She steeled herself. From her toes to the top of her head, she was ready for a surprise attack. Her body became a loaded spring ready to strike once the moment was right.

The idiot barely noticed her. In fact, he stopped paying attention to her once he started poking around the bodies. He checked her victim.

"Snapped his neck, did you?"

Cat didn't think of what to respond, but she answered him with silence. He moved on to the other victim who had just bled out only a few short minutes ago. With his bare hands, he examined the wound in the abdomen as if he were admiring a butcher's fine cut of beef steak.

"Nice clean wound here. Quick, easy, minimum blood stains, and highly effective. Trained professional?" He wiped his hands on the inside of his jacket. Walking down the stoop, the idiot decided to watch her. Like a hawk.

The incessant staring was unnerving. He walked towards her. Cat was honestly not in the mood to make more dead bodies today. Besides the fact that his friend over there didn't look like the kind of man you wanted to mess with or the kind to mess with his friends. It was either her gut or the little voice in her head that told her that killing the half-Asian dude's friend would get her killed.

"Name's Worick. What do you go by?"

Cat's brain was thrown from the fryer and into the oven. The idiot stood there with his hand out, asking her without his words to shake it. She looked at his hand and then back up to his face. He looked pleasant enough, if she could say that. The opposite never really bothered her that much outside of subjective opinions on attractiveness. Her parts still worked, with some effort.

Hesitantly, and Cat knew that she would be regretting this later, she took his hand. She squeezed down on Worick's fingers when he started to get a little too friendly. He immediately released her. When he got his hand free, Worick tried to shake the discomfort off his hand.

"That's quite the grip you got there. So, what's your name?"

Cat replaced her knife in her boot. Out the corner of her eye, she could see his friend relax, though one of his hands still remained on the hilt of the sword.

"Catherine O'Byrne. My friends call me Cat, that is if I had friends."

He glanced at the bodies again.

"Are you turning me in?"

"Nope!" Worick grinned.

Was she dealing with a couple of sociopaths? She dealt with enough of those to last her a lifetime, including the one in the mirror.

"You're just going to let me get away with murder? Just like that?" Cat was more than just incredulous.

Suddenly, Worick had his arm around her shoulders, palm clamped around the top of her arm. He squeezed gently as if to comfort her. Quirking her brow, Cat lifted his arm off of her by his finger like he was refuse.

"Rule number one, don't touch me. Rule number two, if you're going to talk to me, don't stand so close." Cat gave him a shove. "Arm's length apart."

"R-right." He paused. He was thinking. She watched him carefully. "Tell you what, we'll forget about this little mess, if _you_ let me buy you dinner."

"Excuse you?" She couldn't help curing her lip.

"Two adults sitting down for the evening meal? Maybe candles, a little music?"

"I'm going to have to respectfully decline, thank you." She grabbed her bag and heaved it onto her shoulders.

"Then I don't know who I'm going to keep quiet about this." Worick the body on the ground.

Imagine his surprise when they came to the first hit. The first guy was already dead, and the pervert on the ground had his neck broken. She hadn't even acknowledged the gash on her cheek or that her shirt was splattered with blood, not that you could tell the difference from a distance. The blood practically blended in. The fiery red head from this morning proved to be more impressive, and dangerous, than before. Her green eyes looked greedy as her knife plunged inside the target's gut. It took a few minutes for him to die. Still, it was a quick and efficient way to silence him for good. He watched quietly, almost in awe but mostly in terror, as she cleaned her knife on the dead guy's jacket. Such a steady coldness. It was as if she had removed every ounce of remorse from her bones. And the look she gave them when she realized they just saw her murder two people. It almost sent a shiver down his spine.

Nic shot him a look.

 _Don't get too close_ , he seemed to say. Like he had the same feeling Worick was suppressing.

This woman was giving him all sorts of feelings, the good and bad kind. For such a short woman, she had all the right curves. Her chest, especially, was smoother, rounder, heavier than most women who hit the gym like she did. Oh, Worick could see the muscles in her arms and the way her shirt was stretched taut against her flat stomach. The long braid and beret was actually quite feminine for somebody who looked like she could bite your head off if you looked at her the wrong way. Or, in this case, break your neck. She wasn't like most women with freckles. You could barely see if she had any to begin with because her skin was so tan. What did she do for a living that gave her sun-kissed skin?

Her body language remained rigid. She stood there stony, distant, and on edge. Like a Medusa ready to turn her unweary attackers into carved, terrified sculptures. Worick walked around on his tippy toes around her land mines. He couldn't press anymore buttons than he already had, lest he set off her detonator. And by far, her eyes were the deadliest weapons on her. Sharp as a hawk's, lean and narrowed, and bright as the sun. Her eyes looked like they could penetrate through steel. He watched her watching him. Observant, she was. Ex-soldier perhaps?

"And if I still refuse?"

"Well, then," he shrugged, feigning disappointment. "We'll just have to wait for the cops to decide what to do with you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Worick spotted her jaw dropping by just a fraction. He had to resist smirking. Nic looked at him, shaking his head. Worick started to follow him. He counted down on his fingers. He was waiting for the exact reaction he had predicted.

"Three, two, one," he whispered.

"Wait!" She called after him.

"Yes?" Worick quickly turned on his heels, but not too quickly. He didn't want to appear eager.

"Just one dinner date. With you, nobody else, and you never speak of this again?"

Her hands tightened around the straps of her backpack.

"Cross my heart," he made the motion with his forefinger over the breastbone.

"Ugh," Cat groaned, kicking a trash can over. Spoiled food spilled everywhere, joining the rest of the garbage littering the alley. "Fine. But any funny business and your head is mine! Got that?"

"Got it!" Worick winked.

She followed behind them, strapping her military grade sack back on her shoulders. It looked heavy enough. It looked just like her, a former child of war who had seen combat and better days. Some of the edges were frayed; others patched up with mismatching fabric.

"Where exactly are you taking me?" She asked. Worick could feel her eyes burning a hole into the back of his skull. It was more irritating than scary.

"You're the one following us. Remember?" He answered.

"I meant where you taking me to dinner, asshole!" Cat strode up next to him and punched him in the arm. When he started to complain about it, she rolled her eyes and mumbled something about 'men being such big babies.'

About fifteen minutes of following them, she turned into the one complaining.

"How the fuck do you people maneuver around this shit hole? I've been stuck in the middle of a flippin' sandy desert and still found my way out. Why isn't there a map or something? I was supposed to meet somebody!"

"Listen, _Cat_ ," Worick drawled, getting close to his limit. She forced him to listen for the last twenty minutes. Nic was so lucky to be deaf. Worick could have wished for that deficiency. "It's not our fault you got stuck in this town. You should have asked for directions earlier."

"I did. Some snot-nosed punk tried to weasel twenty bucks out of me. So I punched in the face and left in the street." Cat grumbled.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doin' in a place like this anyhow?" Worick glanced behind him. Judging by the backpack and how it seemed to carry all of her worldly possessions, he just assumed she was an ex-soldier down on her lucky and looking for work. She was a looker, but she had some deep dark circles under her eyes. He spotted some scars on her neck and shoulders from where the shirt couldn't hide all of her secrets.

"Looking for work…"

 _Ah_ , so he had been right.

"I know a guy who happens to have an interest in people like me. When somebody like me retires and is still useful, this associate of mine puts the word out that we're lookin' for work. This just so happens to be the best place for me at the moment. The fact that it's the same place where this former associate of mine might be is a bonus," Cat ranted as she adjusted her sack.

"And who might that be?" Asked Worick.

"None of your fucking business," she retorted.

He was about to ask something else, his mouth had already been opened, when the cell phone in his pocket went off. Worick flipped it open, answering without bothering to look at who it was on the other end.

"Worick, glad you picked up."

"Mister Monroe, what a pleasant surprise! We just got started on your little _job_ you gave us earlier today. In fact, we already made a head start. Why the call?" Worick made all three of them stop in the middle of the alley. Cat went over to the opposite wall, took off her backpack and rubbed her shoulders, wincing a she massaged her left one (possibly because of those burn scars he saw as she pulled her shirt away slightly more than necessary, not that she seemed to have noticed him glancing in her direction).

"Listen, I'm in a bit of a bind. First with those perverts, now I can't find my new hired gun. She was supposed to show up today, but she's not in the spot I told her to meet me." Monroe sounded so frustrated. Then again, why would he? Hired guns were a dime a dozen. Wait…did he just say _she_?

Worick felt slightly nauseated. Did he really asked a hired killer out on a dinner date? Blackmail a killer?

"Can I get a description? Maybe I can find her for you?" Worick offered. Nic gave him a weary look. Nic's dark eyes gestured towards Cat who now leaned against the wall, a playful smirk displayed prominently. She knew.

"I don't really have a physical description. Just her basic stats. Catherine O'Byrne. Aged 28. Armed forces, retired. Army. Sniper. Over forty confirmed kills—"

 _Wait. Over forty? That's more than Nic's killed._ Worick glanced at Cat.

"Fifty-two confirmed kills to be exact." She stated it so proudly as if she said she won her middle school's spelling bee in seventh grade. "Well, fifty-three but I'm under a legal obligation to keep silent about a certain classified operation. But hey? Who's counting anyway?"

Worick gawked at her. He didn't know which to be more scared of: the number of dead bodies she made or that her hearing was just that good. He may have been so used to being around a partner who couldn't hear anything at all. She could have been a twilight too. No way a normal person could have picked that up like she did. Not impossible, but highly unlikely.

"I'm looking at her right now." Worick stated coolly. "Seems to have gotten herself lost on the way there."

"Could you bring her to me? Please."

"Can do." Worick ended the call and turned to Cat. "Mind coming with us? Apparently, your new boss is looking for you."

Cat chuckled. "Well, I do declare," she exclaimed in the best impersonation of the sweetest Southern Bell Worick had ever heard, "I would be tickled pink to have you _fine_ gentlemen escort me."


	3. Chapter 3

Monroe looked over the woman in front of him, sizing her up. She had the eyes of a born fighter. He glanced through her 'application,' read it again, and put it aside for a while. O'Byrne stood stalk still like she waited for further instructions from her commanding officer or waiting to be told 'at ease.' He looked at the scars on her neck and shoulders. Burn scars deeply embedded in her skin told all kinds of stories.

"You've earned quite the reputation, I see," he said, almost chuckling. "For someone so short, you're intimidating."

Her green eyes narrowed on him. "I've killed men who've said less offense things to me. My height's got nothin' to do with my skill. I would advise you to refrain from bringing it up again."

Naturally, the body guards surrounding Monroe reached for their weapons even though Cat made no move to reach for own. They searched her twice for any guns or knives, but to her credit, she was an ex-Marine and a mercenary. She earned those scars that came with her reputation. He wouldn't put it past her to stash a weapon somewhere on her person that his men wouldn't think to look.

"Is that a threat?"

"It might just be a promise," Cat replied.

He couldn't tell whether or not she was serious. Judging by the look on her face, there couldn't be any mistake about it. She might die trying, but she would certainly try to kill him as she said. Monroe had a good long laugh before ordering the guards to stand down. They were hesitant, however they obeyed.

"You've got spunk!" Monroe grinned.

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Cat cocked her brow.

"How much are your daily rates?"

"I don't go by daily rates. I've got a kill count. I can guarantee that any target you send me will be dead within 48 hours. Beyond that, you can only assume that I'm dead or captured."

"48 hours? Is that all?" He asked.

Cat only nodded.

"And you believe that you're that good?"

Of course, he knew the answer. It didn't matter whether she truly believed in her skills or not, the proof stood right there in her dossier. Weaseled into the Marines, served five years in the Middle East, and another few years as a gun for fire. According to her military records, as a sniper, she had a total of forty kills, and that didn't even count the 'unofficial' shots she made for top secret missions that Monroe's military buddies couldn't give to him. Her mercenary work must have wrapped around the globe. This, _this_ was just the tip of the iceberg Monroe assumed. Who knows what she did as a gun for hire out in the free world, causing chaos wherever her boots touched ground? She wasn't a woman to be tested, not when she was a battle-hardened Valkyrie poised to strike.

"When can you start?"

"To be fair, sir, I can start any time you have a job for me, but just so you know, I'm willing to work for anybody. _Anybody_. Just as long as they have cash. You just happened to be the first person my associate handed to me. If you want a problem taken care of, I'm your gal. Don't expect special treatment from me, though." Cat reached inside her jacket, taking out a carton of cigarettes and a zippo lighter. She stuck a cigarette between her teeth, lit it, and took a long drag. "I'm sorry." She wasn't. "Would you mind if I smoke?"

Monroe chuckled to himself, stroking his chin. She made a power play. She would a smart one. She wasn't like one of the dumb bimbos strutting their stuff around the corners or trailer trash begging for money. Catherine O'Byrne was a force to be reckoned with.

He grinned, "I don't usually say this, but I like you."

Cat took another drag from her cigarette. It didn't look like she gave a damn about his opinion. She just wanted his money, and maybe somebody to kill to deal with the building frustration that put her on edge. Somewhere in the back of her mind in the place where she buried everything, she wanted to kill. She liked the feeling of her blood racing, to be pushed to Death's door and play ding-dong ditch with the fucker. Liked it? No, she _loved_ it. And this whole stinking town had a whole mess of targets. Those who could afford it, she would be a weapon. It had been too long, too long, since she last pulled the trigger on somebody and watched the lights go out. She missed that feeling.

Sick, huh?

She asked point blank, "Are we done here? Cuz' I've got a date."

"Not with somebody who's hired you to kill me, I hope?" Monroe joked but it was well within the realm of possibility.

"No. I wish," Cat grunted. Her fingers tightened around her cigarette, almost breaking it in half before she even finished it. "God, I wish it was."

* * *

The blonde fucker gave her his address on the back of a napkin he swiped off a counter. The numbers and letters were written crudely in blue ink, but they were mostly intelligible. Cat sighed. She wore her a black dress that somehow still fit. Her _only_ dress by the way. She wore flats on her feet because she wasn't trying to impress the ass who spilled coffee on her. Besides, those things were death traps and she'd take the comfort of combat boots any damn day. Steeling herself, Cat marched up the little steps leading to the flat. Knocking on the door, she waited on the stoop for a full ten minutes before a woman finally answered.

The woman in question called herself Alex and wore nothing but a pair of Daisy dukes and a flimsy tank top that did almost nothing to cover her enormous breasts. Even Cat stopped for a second to admire them. Alex led her upstairs. His partner in crime eyed her from the couch.

"Worick will be out in just a sec!" Alex skipped off to what Cat presumed to be Worick's room.

Cat looked around the room, standing near the entrance. Her fingers never left the shoulder strap to her worn leather bag. She never carried a lot. Perhaps some lipstick if she wanted to feel more feminine, which to be honest was once in a blue moon, breath spray, a compact mirror, pepper spray, a pair of make-shift brass knuckles. You know, the usual. However, most of the weight was largely due to the heavy-duty handgun. Fully loaded and with enough spare bullets in one of the pockets closest to the gun.

The man on the couch eyed her. Cat stopped her exploration of the room when she felt his eyes on her. They stared at each other like two big cats itching to fight. A panther and a tiger sizing each other up before they extended their claws and fangs. Cat watched him reach for the katana leaning against the armrest. Instinctively, Cat's hand reached for her bag, inching towards the pocket where she had her gun. She hated to make a scene, but in her defense he reached for his weapon first and she was left unsupervised. The corner of her mouth twitched as if she was forcing herself not to smile. Looking across the room, the man on the couch did the same.

Somewhere off in the flat, a door opened and promptly closed. Footsteps approached the living room. The two predators who had been holding the staring contest came to an immediate draw once Worick entered the room. He wore a nice black suit. Well, as nice of a suit a man like him could afford to wear that is. He still looked scruffy with his face unshaved though at least he looked and smelled clean from where Cat stood.

Worick adjusted the well-hidden holster under his jacket. At least the man wasn't stupid. She could give him credit for that. He took one look at her, and Cat wanted to punch his teeth down his throat. The way he looked at her sent shivers down her spine. He looked at her the same way a starving man looked at an all-you-can-eat buffet. She'd been told that those shivers were from anticipation, but the words from her dead brothers-at-arms counted for diddly squat. What would they know about how a woman's supposed to feel?

"You clean up nicely," Worick purred. His one good eye never left her chest.

"Up here, bastard," Cat growled, pointing towards her eyes. She adjusted the purse on her shoulder. "Let's get this over with."

"You get a free meal out of this. No need to look so grumpy!" Worick grinned from ear to ear. He crossed the room and attempted to put his hand at her waist.

Cat reacted too quickly for him. She seized his wrist and proceeded to bend it towards him. Through gritted teeth, she said, "What did I say about funny business? Keep your hands above the waist line? Got it."

She let him go once he understood the message loud and clear. Worick began regretting his life choices, but at least he would be going on a date with a pretty woman and that he _didn't_ have to worry about her becoming a clingy client. He needed a chance to relax a little, have some fun. Maybe he could get Cat to lighten up a little? Worth a shot.

Calling a cab, Cat let herself into the car and slammed it shut, forcing Worick to walk around the back of the car to open the other door. Her bright green eyes were focused out the window and she watched for shifty characters, of which there were plenty. Her mouth never moved. She never smiled.

Or, you know, maybe he had his work cut for him?

A dingy hotel restaurant. Worick must have shelled a lot of money to afford this place. _NOT!_ Cat looked around and realized that she spent nights at desert outposts and frost-bitten cabins and mosquito-infested jungles that held more hospitality than this dump. The food was edible enough, though she took pride in having a cast-iron stomach. Came with the territory of a military and mercenary lifestyle. At this point, she could east just about anything and not get sick. Worick tried to make idle chit-chat, and Cat tried her best not to reach into her purse and fire her weapon straight between his eyes. She hated small talk. She hated him.

Then, came the grand old question that he must have asked half dozen times since the moment they met. "Why are you here?"

"Work." Cat took a swig of wine from her half-empty glass.

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Yeah. A girl's gotta eat."

"No, no," Worick shook his head. "You're different. You could work anywhere. Why waste away in a place like this when there are arms dealers you could work with? Mercenary groups. Body guards. Security teams. You've got options. This place is where you run to when you don't have them."

"Like you know about my situation?" Cat growled.

"You're not running away from something. You're running _to_ something," he observed as if he knew a thing or two.

His attitude made the bile in Cat's stomach churn. The level of arrogance from this guy made her want to kill him with every breath. He looked at her like a piece of meat and then talked to her as if he knew her!

"Don't pretend you know me. What are you a psychologist? You think you analyze me like a book?"

"I'd just thought I get to know you," he said before taking a drink from his own wine glass.

Cat scoffed. He was a dead man.

"You don't want to do that, Mr. Worick." Cat gave him a smile of her own. The kind that would normally make men piss themselves. She had a couple of crooked teeth on either side of her incisors that looked a lot like fangs. Cat made sure Worick saw them.

The man sat there, unintimidated. He sat there and wasn't disturbed. Cat found herself at a loss for words. Usually that made men think twice.

"Why not?" He was pushing her buttons. That had to be it! He had to be working with somebody to get under her skin and push her out into the opening.

"Because, Worick, if that's even your real name," Cat leaned towards him from across the table, "When men try to get to know me, they usually end up dead. Either by my hand or they're simply at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Is that so?" He smirked, still unimpressed.

Cat's grin fell. Nope. That didn't seem to work. She glanced around the restaurant. Too many witnesses. She supposed she could lure him into an alley, but his partner in crime seemed to be the kind who would come after her to get revenge. Or just to kill her. The latter seemed slightly more plausible than the former, but Cat was in no mood to find out which.

She drank more wine until her cheeks were bright red and her glass returned empty to the table. Looking at Worick now, Cat may have drank too much because at the moment, the guy didn't look so bad. He had a roguish way about him, a good-looking guy who seemed rough around the edges. He clearly had seen some action, unless that eye-patch was hiding the scars of an accident and not one made by combat. His eyes, she admitted, were kind of…pretty, she guessed. It would take another glass of wine before she would make a definite decision on Worick's good looks.

Worick wasn't sure when he suddenly became interested in chipping away at this woman. Perhaps it was because she didn't ogle him or shove him into a hotel room and tie him to a bed and fuck him, leaving behind only the smell of cheap wine and a stack of bills on the nightstand. She presented a challenge. A side project for him. Getting on her good side might also prevent her from killing him in the future.

The little black number was out of style, but it hugged her curves nicely. The deep V-shape cut left plenty for him to see, and he wasn't just thinking about her chest back at the apartment. She had large burn scars that covered a lot more skin than he imagined. On her left, it spread from under her dress, over her shoulder, and reached her collar bone. That side of her neck had a matching scar that looked like it reached all the way around to the back. Cat clearly had no issue with showing off her scars. She pulled herself together fairly well but didn't bother covering up her scars with cover-up. The most make-up she wore tonight consisted of deep red lipstick and lightly applied eye-liner which only served to make her harsh, intense eyes look more deadly than fiercely enticing.

He was about to suggest heading out, taking her home, when a voice hollered from across the dining hall. The restaurant staff and patrons each turned towards the source of the noise. Out of corner of his eye, Worick saw Cat suddenly somber up and he turned his attention to the interlopers. Five Hispanic-looking men in suits started making their way towards their table. The one leading the pack came up right next to Cat, sneering down at her. His glare was met with a look of utter indifference.

"You look awfully familiar, _puta_. I don't suppose we've met before, eh?" He growled.

"Maybe I just have one of those faces? Ever think of that?" Cat reached for her purse.

Her body went rigid. It tensed in the same way an animal would when it was preparing to strike. The first man slammed his hand on the table and leaned his face closer to her. Cat didn't so much as blink let along flinch away.

"Are you sure?" He snarled, revealing a gold tooth. "Because I remember a certain red-headed bitch slitting my brother's throat in front of me. Don't tell me you don't remember _Guadalajara_? Because I do."

"Did I?" Cat chuckled. She reclined in her chair. She reached for her now empty glass and twirled her finger around the rim.

"Yeah. I don't forget a face like that. Surprise, surprise when I walk in here for a little business meeting and I see _your_ face. What? Did you get tired of fucking your mercenary team?"

Cat rose from her chair. "Don't think too much on this, Worick. It's just business."

His brows furrowed. What did she mean by that? "Huh? What are you—"

Suddenly, she slammed her palms against the table. Cat practically threw herself across the table. Worick blinked, and it happened like a dream. Cat reached over the table. Her arms pushed her forward enough to propel her towards him. He felt her hands grab the lapel of his jacket. Worick could feel the fabric grip the fabric tightly. She could have easily ripped and ruined one of his few good jackets if she wanted to. But Cat had other things to attend to. Like kissing him.

Yep. That's right. She propelled herself forward just to plant one on his mouth. Worick would be more shocked if he didn't also have to worry about the five Mexicans who were likely packing heat and looking to kill somebody. And just happened to be on a date with the target of their ire. She wrapped her lips around his in a long, hot, steamy kiss. Teeth and tongue clashed and the whole time he wondered if he could get away with coping a feel.

All too quickly (much to Worick's disappointment), the kiss ended. Then he understood why she had kissed him to begin with. The sudden loss of his holstered guns was the first thing he registered once he could breathe again. He blinked. His guns were in her hands. Her eyes gleamed with bloodlust; her grin looked wolfish.

"Don't you know anything about hunting wolves? You never corner a she-wolf," Cat chuckled.

With guns poised, she trembled with anticipation. The deadly gleam in her eyes and the hungry look on her face gave it all away. This was going to be a blood bath. And she was going to enjoy every second of it.


End file.
